Thirteen Seconds
by The Profane Angel
Summary: Not the usual fan fic. The last moments of Claire's life.


Thirteen Seconds

A/N: It's said that your life flashes before you when you die. Claire Kincaid looks into headlight beams, and thirteen seconds later, it's over. Not my usual style, but I hope y'all enjoy it. Its structure and concept are hard to rip off, so it's not the usual for fan fic; some of Claire's dialogue is quoted from things JH has said to me. Rip that off and look like an idiot. For Bia, who keeps me entertained with "omgcabotfacts." Thanks, kiddo. You keep me laughing.

"I don't think she hates you, Lennie," Claire said. It was all she could come up with, as she listened to Lennie Briscoe's drunken regrets about his daughter. Lights, on high beam, lit her up and she turned her head. She looked into a massive truck speeding toward her.

--1—

"Claire, you can't talk to Mac like that." Her mother stood in Claire's bedroom doorway, glaring at the lanky teenager. Claire ignored her, listening to the rock god singing "Get it While You Can." Too angry to be denied, her mother stomped to Claire's bed and yanked the headphones off her head, taking long dark strands of hair with them. Claire looked up, wounded, faintly hearing the Goddess of Rock hit one of her notes and stretch it into infinity. "How can you listen to that caterwauling? That woman died of a drug overdose." She dropped the headphones on the tape case, satisfied with the cracking sound that followed. Her full attention returned to her daughter, and her anger surged as Claire rolled off the bed and towered over her.

"Leave me alone," Claire said, struggling with control.

"Oh, we'll leave you alone, all right," her mother sneered. "We're looking into boarding school."

Hiding her surprise, Claire said "Works for me."

It came out of nowhere, the slap that stung and made her ears ring. Claire covered her cheek and stepped back. Her mother looked at her hand, as if it belonged to a stranger, then at her stricken daughter. "Claire…"

Unable to stop the tears, Claire grabbed a jacket off the foot of the bed and ran from her bedroom. She flew down the stairs, past Mac, and out into the late autumn afternoon, slamming the door behind her. She didn't stop running until she'd hit the corner. Pausing to catch her breath, she shrugged into the jacket, looked around, and decided to see if Dickie was home.

Fifteen, tall and lovely, Claire jogged through the streets of Cambridge, skirting the edges of Harvard, where her stepfather taught in the law school. Dickie lived in a third floor walk-up on a side street. He was a sophomore at Harvard. Claire thought he was gorgeous and smart and far more worldly than she'd ever be. She took the stairs to his hallway two at a time. She rapped twice on his door, shifting her weight from foot to foot, silently imploring him to open the door.

He did. He smiled, easy and sexy, leaning on the doorframe, wearing just his jeans. Cyndi Lauper was playing on the stereo, and the smell of good pot hung in the air. "Miz Claire," he said, "come in." She ducked under his arm and stepped into the tiny apartment, furnished in early college.

A joint burned in the ashtray. Dickie picked it up, toked, and offered it to Claire. Her mother would go apeshit, she thought, which was a perfectly good reason to inhale. She sucked the harsh smoke into her lungs and held it, as Dickie did. He gestured to the couch, and she sat. He eased down next to her, one arm going around her shoulders before he passed the joint.

She got high, quickly and easily, feeling at ease in these surroundings. Dickie dropped the roach into the ashtray and got up to change tapes. Pink Floyd, she thought, as Dickie said "Music for getting high."

Mac and Selma would stroke out, she thought, almost wishing they'd catch her. Then visions of Dickie in the back of a patrol car, in handcuffs, filled her mind, and she shook her head to clear it. Dickie pulled her close, and she relaxed in his easy embrace. Maybe this time he'd make a move, she hoped, but all he really seemed interested in was getting higher and higher. He put his feet on the coffee table and his fingers played in her hair.

"So, what's up, Claire?"

She looked up, slumped as she was against him. It was novel, looking up at someone, she towered over most people. The senior boys were taller than she, but that was about it in the cloistered world of her private school. Dickie was tall, over six feet, with silky black hair and velvety brown eyes, and possessed of a poise few had. "My mother, what else?"

"The bitch of Backbay on your case again?" He smiled.

"Continously. I told my stepfather to stuff it, and she popped a screw."

"Politics." He laughed. "I keep telling you, with parents, it's all politics. You tell them what they want to hear and then do what you want."

"Yeah, but she's on my ass no matter what I say or do." She folded her hands on her flat abdomen. "She's talking about sending me to boarding school."

"Ouch. My father threatened the same thing. Did it, too." He grinned. Dickie found the world quite amusing. "Best thing that ever happened to me."

"Where did you go?"

"Milton Academy. Not five miles from here." He leaned forward for his pack of cigarettes and offered one to Claire. She declined. "As long as it's not a Catholic boarding school, don't fight her." He blew a smoke ring. "Parents have no idea, boarding schools are a hotbed of anarchy." He put the cigarette in the ashtray and faced her, his hands on her shoulders. "Drugs, sex, and rock and roll."

--2—

Selma Gellar kept her word. Claire Kincaid found her young ass in a loosely Catholic boarding school in the Berkshires, too far for Dickie to visit except for long weekends. She was put with Emily Van der Meere and they hit it off. Emily personified the term "wild child." Claire adored her, living vicariously through her adventures and mishaps, which Emily happily shared at night, after lights out. They passed a bottle of cheap wine back and forth as Emily told her about her older sister, Bridget, and how determined she was to have a life as interesting as Bridget's.

"She ran away when she was fifteen, spent a week with Janis Joplin, was supposed to go with her on The Festival Express." Emily drank, then wiped her chin with the back of her hand. "She did all the fun stuff. And now, she's this proper old lady, raising three boys, you'd never know she once knew how to have fun."

"How old is she?"

"Over thirty," Emily snorted. "My parents said they weren't going to make the same mistakes with me. Don't Bogart the wine, Stretch."

Claire passed the bottle back across the narrow aisle between their beds. As Emily grabbed it, their door opened and the lights came on. They looked up to see Reverend Mother and the RA standing just inside their room. Doom and gloom time, Claire thought, once again my ass is in a sling. She looked at Emily and her shiteating grin and thought it would be worth it.

--3—

Smith College. Claire loved it, loved her housemates, finally found herself amidst the academics and the fun. She and Avery Bennett quickly became close, Avery was a wilder, more sophisticated Emily, Butch to Claire's Sundance. She was a painter, she was a boozehound, and she was brilliant, her saving grace with the staid and the easily shocked. Claire was constantly hearing an outraged "Avery!" ring through the house, and constantly wore a grin at her friend's antics. Avery, like Claire, planned to go to law school. And like Claire, she didn't have to spend all her time studying. Avery was the best friend Claire ever had.

Avery went to law school in the south, while Claire went to Harvard, using her GPA, LSAT, and stepfather to gain a slot. Mac and Selma moved to New York City during Claire's second year, Mac got a job at Columbia, and Claire knew what it was to breathe free for the first time. During her third year, she met Steve, and if not for the nagging of her roommate, Margot Bell, her grades would have nosedived along with her sleep schedule and Law Review. Then she had a pregnancy scare.

She stretched out on the couch, holding a throw pillow against her stomach, and looked at Margot. "What the hell am I going to do?"

Margot put the cup of tea on the end table near Claire's head and then sat in the rocking chair by the window. "You're going to find out if you are, first, before you leap into the myriad of 'whats' that come with the territory." Ever practical, Margot regarded her friend with a tinge of envy she couldn't conceal. Claire heard all her life that she was beautiful, but she didn't believe it, didn't see it in the mirror. Selma never told her she was beautiful, and it was Selma's opinion that weighed most heavily on Claire. "Go to student health services and pee in the cup." Margot picked up her tea. "For Chrissakes, Claire, aren't you on the pill?"

"Of course," Claire protested, "but…"

"You and your buts." Margot waved the ethereal buts away. "Get up in the morning and pee for the nurse. Stop letting your imagination run away with you." She sipped. "And if you aren't, for God's sake, take it as a wake up call."

Claire got up early the next morning and wandered across the sprawling campus to Student Health Services. She took a plastic specimen cup from the sleepy nurse who'd just opened the clinic, and filled it in the tiny bathroom. After washing her hands, she wrapped a brown paper towel around the cup and took it back to the nurse.

"Wait here," the nurse said. "It won't take long."

Claire sat in a hard chair and tried to read a tattered magazine, but her brain raced with gloom and doom, her buddies from prep school. She thought the nurse bore a resemblance to Reverend Mother, and she heard Reverend Mother's voice – you're too bright for this crap, Claire. Sometimes she missed the old nun.

The nurse called her to the desk half an hour later. "Negative," she said.

Claire nodded, then found her voice. "Thank you."

The older woman sighed. "Don't thank me, it wasn't my urine. Really, dear, you have to be careful, you have your whole life ahead. Don't screw it up."

Claire nodded and left, hurrying back to the apartment she shared with Margot. Margot came out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around her head, as Claire walked in. "Well?" Margot demanded.

"Negative," Claire said, and grinned.

"So St. Claire's dreams are intact for another month." Margot pulled the towel off her head and shook it out. "Try studying instead of screwing. If you put as much time into school as you do into screwing Stevie, you'd still be on Law Review."

"No great loss," she said. "I'm not planning on going into private practice like some people."

"You still need the academic currency, even if you go, shudder, into a district attorney's office."

"Which I may well do. I already have a clerkship lined up, in New York."

"Wish I had your connections." Margot sighed. "I have to get to class. Contracts. God." She raked her hair with her fingers. "Are you going to class today?"

"Yeah, at eleven."

"See you later, don't forget to lock the door on your way out."

Claire watched Margot's retreating back, still elated over the good news. She would graduate in three months, then it was off to the city and back into her parents' orbit. Well, she'd deal with that when it happened.

--4—

Joel Thayer. Claire cringed slightly, just thinking his name, as she got in the elevator to go up to Adam Schiff's office for her final interview. She knew she had the job, Joel had been only too willing to write a good recommendation if it would get Claire out of his office. Why, she wondered, did these things always end badly? She wondered if she'd ever have what passed for a normal relationship with a man. She knocked on Mr. Schiff's door, nervous but hiding it well. He called for her to come in, and she stepped into the sunny office, stopping when she saw another man.

"Miss Kincaid, this is Ben Stone. You're assigned to his office, as his assistant."

"Mr. Stone," she said, inclining her head. She knew who he was, he was Mr. Schiff's executive assistant, and that intimidated her.

"Happy to have you on board, Miss Kincaid. Will you be starting Monday morning?"

"Yes sir."

"Show her around, Ben." Adam stood and held his hand out to Claire. She shook it. "Good to have you with us, give my regards to your father."

Stepfather, Claire almost corrected, biting the word in two before it escaped her lips. She glanced at Ben Stone, thinking great, now he thinks the only reason I got the job was my lineage. Claire followed Ben into the hall.

"So, who's your father?" Ben naturally asked. "I don't recall any Kincaids…" he let his thought trail away, suddenly aware the question might be improper.

"Mac Gellar," she replied. "He's my stepfather."

Ben nodded. "I know Mr. Gellar, fine man and excellent attorney."

Claire nodded. "So I've heard," she said.

Ben looked at her oddly, and she kicked herself, great impression you're making, Kincaid, she thought, staring at the floor as they walked to Ben's office on the ninth floor.

Ben Stone slipped into the role of tutor and mentor as if it was the natural order of things. He didn't allow her to prosecute any cases, and she felt like she was back in law school. She didn't dare utter an opinion, lest the great man decide she was a blithering idiot who got the job because of family connections and not ability. It was an excruciatingly long year, made worse when the district attorney's office had to prosecute Joel Thayer.

Claire resigned over that one. She wanted to move away, go south and join Avery in Atlanta, but Ben Stone would have none of it. He was angry at first, then understanding and supportive, and he coerced her into rejoining the DA's office. She wanted to hide in her office for weeks after the Thayer verdict. Ben acted as if nothing untoward had occurred, and eventually Claire stopped imagining the whispers behind her back. She began venturing opinions, tentatively at first, and growing stronger each time Ben listened to her thoughts.

But Ben left the DA's office after his hubris caused the death of a terrified witness, or so he thought. He resigned. A few days later, Claire was called into Mr. Schiff's office. She wondered if she'd screwed up. She went in and found him looking down at the street.

"Miss Kincaid." Adam smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm assigning you to Jack McCoy, just across the hall. He's taking Ben's place. He's very different from Ben. I think you'll do fine, just be aware that he's something of a ladies' man." Adam frowned slightly. "Don't take this the wrong way, but every time I give him a female assistant, that assistant leaves this office vocally enraged."

Claire cocked her head. "What are you saying?"

Adam walked to his chair and sank into it, staring at her. "I'm telling you to stay out of his bed, to be blunt."

Blunt it was, Claire thought, taking a step back. Would Adam have said that if he didn't know about Joel Thayer? "Yes sir," she said, quietly, aware of the flush creeping up her neck.

"He's in his office, go introduce yourself."

She nodded. She walked out of Adam's office and glanced around. She saw the door just across the narrow hall, where Adam's secretary hid from the rest of the pool, and drew a deep breath. You've been warned, she thought, better warn Mr. McCoy. The door was ajar and she pushed it open.

He was bent over, looking for something in the low bookcase behind his desk. Then he straightened up, and in that fraction of a second, she got a great view of his butt. Taken aback by the interest that glimpse sparked, she covered by saying "Jack McCoy."

He turned and smiled. "Claire Kincaid."

She defensively made Adam's, no her, position clear. Jack McCoy just grinned and took it, telling her he didn't anticipate a problem. He invited her out for a drink a couple of days later. She agreed, she wanted to forge a good relationship with this man, stifling her attraction to him. She doubted he saw anything besides a young woman he could mold into whatever he wanted, a glorified gofer.

He'd changed into jeans and brought a motorcycle helmet with him to the little fern bar not far from their Hogan Place offices. He ordered scotch for himself, and she did too, it was a pleasant drink. They sat in a booth.

"So what do you think?" he asked, flashing that crooked grin.

"About what?" she responded, hoping he didn't notice the flush creeping up her neck as her body overrode her mind and she wondered what he looked like naked.

"About the case," he said, as if he could think of nothing besides the job to talk about.

"Uh, well, I'm not sure we really have a case." She shrugged and picked up her glass. "But we've talked about that."

There was that grin again, insolent in its way, as if he'd already pictured her, not just naked, but writhing beneath him and he was enjoying it. "So we have," he agreed. "So what do you think of our boss?"

"Mr. Schiff?" She was startled. Surely he didn't expect her to say anything negative.

Jack McCoy seemed to have an endless supply of enticing grins. "Indeed. I don't think we have another boss." He was enjoying this, upending her, watching her stumble.

She gulped her drink, then met his merry gaze and a decision was made for her. She felt her nipples harden under his watchful eyes, and she crossed her arms over her treacherous breasts. "He warned me about you."

McCoy laughed, then signaled for another round. "And what did he say?"

"That your female assistants left unpleasantly."

The drinks arrived, and Jack took his glass, pausing before he sipped to say, "That's putting it mildly."

She couldn't stop blushing, so she plowed on, hoping it was dark enough to cover the infuriating wave of red rushing to her scalp. "You do have a reputation."

"So you said. I can't believe my sexual history reached the vaunted office of Ben Stone." He stared, his eyes boring into hers, and she knew he knew, knew he'd heard about Joel. She looked down, embarrassed. Then he reached for her hand, held it loosely in his much larger one as his thumb stroked her fingers one by one. "You're a musician, too?" he asked, and his tone was gentle.

She looked up and saw kindness in his eyes. All traces of the merry gremlin were gone. Her brain told her to yank her hand away, her body told her brain to get stuffed. "I had the obligatory music lessons, piano and guitar."

"Growing up as Mac Gellar's kid, that couldn't have been easy, especially when you decided to go into law, too."

His skin was cool against her overheated hand, but she still held hands with him. "Mac didn't have the final say in my choice of professions."

"I'm sure." It was a half smile this time, one of understanding. "But it didn't hurt, either, did it?"

"No," she said, and then she did break the handhold; if she didn't, she'd go home with him. She finished her drink and reached into her purse for her wallet. "I better get home."

He pulled his wallet out of his hip pocket. "I have it," he said. "I'll walk you to your car."

She wanted to hold his hand as they walked to the parking garage and to her car. "Thank you," she said, "I'll see you in the morning."

"You will," he said, and closed the door. She cranked the engine, wondering how many ways she could take his last remark. He deftly avoided being run over as she backed out of the space, she was flustered and she knew it showed. He must think she was a ditz, and that thought made her cringe. She needed to look into his history, she thought, know what she was up against. Adam's warning rang in her mind, the knowing look in his eyes a conviction on all charges.

She didn't sleep well, but she made it through the next few days. She got the answers to her inquiries the day they convicted Nancy Haas. Jack invited her out for a celebratory drink, and as they walked out of the office, she said "I checked, you know." When he made a confused noise, she continued, "You've only had three female assistants."

She saw that grin yet again, and a knowing fire burned in his eyes. "You were the one who wanted to know the truth," he said. He put his hand on the small of her back, guiding her to the elevator.

The attraction she felt caught fire that night, as they sat in the same booth, sipping scotch after scotch. You can't, she argued with herself, with his reputation and Adam's watchful eye, you're asking for major league trouble. She wondered if she imagined the desire in Jack's eyes, body language. It was Friday night, she could sleep late in the morning, so she let her guard down. She tried to match Jack drink for drink, a lost cause before it began, but then she realized she couldn't drive. She looked at her watch.

"Shit," she said, "I better call a cab."

He grabbed her wrist and held her hand between his, his skin so warm and inviting. "Where do you live?" he asked.

"Upper West side," she said, knowing what he wanted but not believing he'd endanger their careers just to get laid.

"I do, too," he said. "Let's share that cab, and I'll pick you up tomorrow, we'll have lunch and then get our cars."

"You have a car?" she asked, teasing.

He shrugged. "Can't ride a bike in the rain."

Then he was in the cab with her, sitting close but not too close. He told the driver to wait, he'd see her up and then be right back. He walked her into her building, it didn't have a doorman, and up to her second floor apartment. He took the keys from her trembling hand and inserted the key, turned the knob, and said, "I'll come by around noon, OK?" She nodded and he leaned over, kissed her lightly on the cheek, and said "Sleep well."

She walked in and closed the door, then leaned against it. Oh God, what was she doing? She flipped on a lamp and walked into her bedroom. She changed out of her work clothes and into loose fitting pajamas. Then she got a Diet Coke and sat on the couch. Why didn't I ask him in, she wondered, and knew the answer. Sleeping with Jack McCoy was a ten on the Richter scale of disasters in waiting. She could imagine Margot's response, Claire didn't like it, so she thought of how Avery would answer such a dilemma – get it while you can, baby, she'd say.

--5—

It was driving them crazy. They couldn't be in the same room without the sexual tension, the unadulterated lust, arcing and bouncing and making life miserable, but they hadn't acted on it. Claire thought she'd have to leave the DA's office if she was to find some kind of peace, some relief from this unrelenting desire to join her body with his. She knew he felt the same way. She'd learned to read his body language, his smiles, even the way he looked at her over the past few months, and she knew he felt exactly the way she did. He didn't move to change things. They went out almost every night, for a couple of drinks after work, to dinner and the movies on weekends. They held hands, but Jack didn't push it further, kissing her chastely on the cheek at the end of the evening, as if he knew if he really kissed her all hell would break loose.

This shit has got to stop, she thought, anticipating the end of the work day. It was a Friday, she was going to cook for them, a first. Claire liked cooking, but she was nervous about this effort. She'd brought a change of clothes to the office, and she went into the deserted ladies' room to change into them. Jack met her in the hallway, his briefcase dangling from his hand, a shy smile on his face.

"I took a cab to work," he whispered.

He's scared shitless, she realized, he's making a statement and giving me a way out. She smiled back. "Good," she said. "I think you'll fit into my car."

As they walked through the garage, he took her hand. She glanced up at him, reading his expression. He's about to explode just as I am, she thought, and if it wasn't for the security cameras, she would have turned and forced him to kiss her. Instead, they got in her car and she managed to drive to her building without smashing into another car.

She flipped the master switch as she led him into the apartment. She'd shopped the night before, diced the boneless chicken breasts, sliced the scallions, done all the prep she could. The apartment was clean, she'd even changed her sheets, all too aware of what she was thinking. "Help yourself to a drink," she said, heading for her bedroom.

She was in her underwear when he stepped into the room, pressed her back to his chest as his arms went around her. She turned, her arms going around his neck, and he finally kissed her. His tongue felt like an electric cattle prod in her mouth, the shocks of desire running from her mouth to other outlets. He eased her onto the bed, then mumbled, "Oh, the hell with foreplay." He sat up and yanked his shirt off, kicked his pants away. Then he kissed her again, reaching to unhook her bra. He pulled it off with one hand, then that hand closed on a breast, his thumb rubbed her nipple.

"Oh Christ," she whispered, as he nuzzled her neck. "The hell with foreplay indeed."

He looked down at her and grinned, then he peeled her underwear away from her legs, quickly followed by his own flying across the room. Neither one of them bothered with seeing how the other looked naked. "Jack," she groaned, "for God's sake…"

He needed no further direction. With one hard, impatient thrust, he was buried to his hilt within her, and the groan that escaped from him almost scared her. Then he framed her face with his hands and looked into her eyes. "We can't go back now," he whispered, "the deed is done."

"Oh hell no it isn't," she gasped, writhing under his still body, urging him to move.

"Birth control?" he asked.

"Covered," she said. "Jack—"

And he moved. Months of desire and frustration, of uncertainty and full knowledge, empowered his every thrust. Claire writhed in sweet agony as all her doubts and fears evaporated under his skilled touch. She felt the gathering within, the screaming of nerve endings as she approached pleasure overload. He held still and firm within her as she came, wave after wave of pleasure breaking against him, and as the waves receded, he moved to his own. Finished for the moment, he felt weightless upon her smaller frame, sweat and other fluids mingling as they caught their breath. He kissed her, then carefully eased away, rolling onto his back.

"Oh sweet Jesus," she said.

He gathered her into his arms, kissing the top of her head. "That was…"

"Long overdue?' she suggested when his voice trailed away.

He grinned. "Yeah, that too."

"I'm fired if Adam finds out."

He stroked her shoulder. "Me, too. He gave me the same warning. But since I don't see him here, I don't think he knows."

She rose up on one elbow. She stroked his jaw, his lips, with her finger. "I suspect he has a clue, I mean, a blind person would see we're attracted to each other."

"Yeah, but attraction and actual intercourse are two different things." He pushed her head back on his shoulder. "We'll be OK."

She smiled. She was oblivious to the effect her smile had on others; she projected a vulnerability that made Jack want to hold her close, protect her from the things that go bump in the night, to kiss it and make it better. He did kiss her, a lingering sweet cherry wine kind of kiss, then pressed her face to his shoulder. His fingers tangled in her silky black hair and he inhaled her scent as he kissed the top of her head. His heart told him what he felt, but his brain would not allow him to utter the words, not now. He didn't want to break the moment, the trust and affection flowing from her. Part of him thought he would die if that flow of emotion stopped, if she pulled away from him. Is this, he wondered, what 'joined at the hip' really means?

Claire sensed the emotions running amok in Jack, and she pulled her head back, looking at him. She wanted to touch him, to merge with him again, but she was too shy to initiate it. She settled for tracing the lines of his face, then she leaned forward and kissed him. "Are you hungry?" she asked.

He smiled. "Yeah, but not for food."

It was the first time in her life that she'd craved skin on skin, needed another body to make hers feel complete. It was as if he'd taken her virginity, and it was a peculiar feeling. She sat up, tailor fashion, holding his hand and looking him over as she kissed each of his fingers. "We are so screwed," she said, twisting his signet ring, "if this gets out."

"So we won't let it," he said, and sat up. This time she pulled the covers back, so they could roll in the clean, soft sheets till dawn.

--6—

Nine months later, the Sandig case landed on Adam's desk, and he lobbed it onto Jack's. Claire felt sick as she looked it over, then looked up to meet Jack's knowing gaze. "Please tell me you aren't," she whispered.

"Claire." His tone was soft. "You knew when Pataki was elected it might come to this. Should I get another second chair?"

She shook her head. "Adam won't put up with that, and it won't change the fact that I know you're going for it."

He got up and walked around his desk. He gently massaged her shoulders, the fading afternoon light making them feel insulated and isolated from the larger world. She focused on his hands as they loosened the knots in her shoulders, the tension that seized her melting under his expert manipulation of her muscles. Then the side door opened and Adam stepped in.

"Am I interrupting?" he asked, a sour expression replacing the amiable one present when he opened the door.

Jack continued to work Claire's shoulders as he met Adam's accusing stare. "Not at all, Adam. Muscle spasm."

"Then Ms. Kincaid should see a chiropractor or massage therapist. This is an office, not a massage parlor."

Claire went rigid again, and Jack felt it. He redoubled his efforts. "Nothing wrong with this, Adam." Helen Keller would have heard the challenge in his voice.

"If you can't see what's wrong, perhaps I need to separate the two of you. Or turn the hose on you, whatever's more appropriate."

"Jack." She touched his left hand with her right, and he stopped, stepping away. Claire looked at Adam. "I'm sorry, Adam. "

"Don't be sorry, be smart." He reached for the DD5 and attached documents on Jack's desk. "What you do away from the office is your business as long as it doesn't spill over in here. I will not have you touching each other in any way, is that clear? I don't want the gossip, the headaches, to have to deal with another rampaging female ADA after Jack's genitals for wrongs perceived and committed." He glanced at the papers in his hand. "Are we clear?"

"Yes," they chorused. Jack resumed his seat behind his desk, and Claire flushed. She looked at her hands, clenched in her lap.

"Get this to the grand jury ASAP." He tossed the papers on Jack's desk before looking at his watch. "Go on, get out of here, you'll be burning the midnight oil soon enough. I hate firsts," he mumbled, as an afterthought, "and this first death penalty case is going to get a lot of attention."

"Why does it have to be a death penalty case?" Claire asked.

Adam looked at her. "Do you have a problem with that?"

She looked at Jack, read the 'shut up' look she'd come to know, and shrugged a shoulder. "I don't know. I'm opposed on principle, but I'll do my job."

"See that you do. I'll see you in the morning." He turned and left through his private passageway.

Jack stood. "C'mon, let's get out of here. We won't see the sun for months."

She looked out the window, it was dark. "We're not going to see it now."

He smiled. "Come. I'm buying dinner."

--xx—

Claire woke at three. Jack was sleeping, and she listened to his deep breathing for a few minutes, reassured by his presence. It was just a dream, she told herself, shivering as she recalled the vivid imagery: she was watching a clock, knowing someone was coming to kill her in precisely ten minutes. She sat up, pulled the sheet to cover Jack's bare shoulders, then eased out of bed. She found her robe by touch and slipped it over her cold shoulders, then snuck out of the bedroom. She closed the door, then turned on the kitchen light.

She grabbed a Diet Coke from the refrigerator, then fished her date book out of her briefcase. She turned on the lamp beside the couch and sank onto the couch, reaching for a shawl folded on the far end. She opened the book, reviewing the day to come, the rest of the week. It was all going to change now that a capital case had hit them, was it any wonder she'd learned to write appointments in pencil?

She wondered how this case would change them, change the entity known as Jack and Claire, what would it steal from them while their backs were turned? They'd bickered over the past months, their relationship was not perfect, but they'd always found each other again. Nothing serious arose to divide them, and she felt a sense of security that was now to be tested. She glanced over her shoulder at the bedroom door. Remember that you love each other, she thought, and that one constant must dominate any other influence. You've always known you had fundamental differences at your individual cores, but they were differences that drew the best from us and we made it work. She'd always known Jack had no moral objection to capital punishment and that she was deeply opposed to it, but it had been academic until Pataki was elected and she faced the reality that one day this was going to happen.

She sipped from the can in her left hand. How could she argue for death? Even when Avery was murdered right in front of her, six months ago, she hadn't wanted to exact death as punishment for her killer. Capital punishment was barbaric, did not bring the victim to life again, diminished society and made the government criminal. Now she was legally entering a conspiracy to murder, and it distressed her terribly. She didn't know how Jack slept so soundly, with a clear conscience, when he was going to bust his ass to send a man to death row.

She put the date book aside and got up. She paced to the windows, back to the couch, back to the windows. It was a small apartment and she felt like its walls were closing in. She returned to the couch, to her drink, wishing she could find numbness, silence her conscience. She walked back to the window, and then she heard the bedroom door creak.

She turned and watched Jack approach. He rubbed his face, then put his hands on her shoulders, meeting her eyes before pulling her into his arms. "Shh," he whispered. "We haven't convicted him yet, and assuming we do, there are years of appeals built into the process. You're getting ahead of yourself."

She put her arms around his waist, wanting to take comfort from his presence. He was right, and she understood that, but it didn't ease the pricks of conscience. She let him guide her back to bed, hold her as he returned to sleep while she stared at the ceiling. Perhaps it was time to look for another job.

--7—

They survived the Sandig case, perhaps because Jack did most of the work. They didn't let the arguments escalate, clinging to the bond between them to get them through it. And after Paul Sandig's conviction and the imposition of the death penalty, things eased up. They managed a few weekends away, magical moments of stolen time, and talked of things like commitment and going public. Claire began thinking of a child, but she didn't mention it to Jack.

And then they got the Carmel case. Claire found it disturbing on many levels, more so than most of the cases they prosecuted, for it involved the murder of an infant. And opposing counsel was Ruthie Miller. Claire adored Ruthie, loved matching wits and fencing across the courtroom with her. Jack and Ruthie were old friends, and when Claire became an integral part of Jack's life, Ruthie came with the package.

Jack and Claire were going over strategy when Ruthie dropped in. She breezed into the office, exuding confidence and witty repartee. Jack kept to his desk chair, listening while Claire and Ruthie exchanged barbs, amused by it all. Ruthie brought up her own kid, and Claire was quick to point to Ruthie's restraint as opposed to the accused nanny.

"I can see you haven't had the pleasure, Claire," Ruthie said, perceptively.

Taken aback for a second, Claire struggled for a retort. "And I'm not likely to any time soon," was the best she came up with. She glanced at Jack and caught his smug, amused expression. I'll deal with you later, she thought, firing metaphorical daggers at him with her eyes.

When Ruthie left, Jack took one look at her and started laughing. She came around his desk and planted her hands on the arms of his chair, her arms pinning him in place. He looked at her, his dark brown eyes warm and affectionate.

"Sorry," he mumbled, containing his laughter. "If you could have seen your face when Ruthie said you hadn't had the pleasure –"

"Yeah, yeah, it was really good for me, how was it for you?"

He pulled her hands off the chair and held them. "Great, like always." He stood and put his arms around her, not caring who saw them.

She did care, though, and she pulled away. He let her go, watching as she turned away, focusing on the photograph of Rebecca behind his desk. She touched it, then turned back to him. "You want to know why it got to me?" He nodded. "Because she knows, and she's needling me about it, that I'm thinking about a kid."

"Well shit, Claire, were you going to mention that to me anytime soon?"

"Since it's not something I'd do without your knowledge and consent, yeah, I was going to mention it one of these days."

He looked at his watch. "Let's get lunch," he said. She nodded, and while he adjusted his tie and put his coat on, she went for her purse and jacket. They rarely went out for lunch, but Jack had a feeling a major discussion was about to erupt, and he didn't want it to happen in the office. They rode the crowded elevator down in silence, though Jack kept his hand on the small of her back.

It was going to rain. Claire looked at the dark western sky, and looked at Jack. "Want to go home for lunch?" she asked.

He smiled. "I'm easy." He stepped to the curb and hailed a taxi.

Claire slid in and gave the driver her address as Jack closed the door and buckled his seat belt. Once secured, he held her hand while the driver navigated through heavy traffic. They didn't talk until they were inside her small apartment.

Jack kissed her, then said, "Do you really want a kid?"

She pressed her face into his shirt, caressing his back with her long fingers. "I think about it every now and then." She sighed, then drew back, starting for the kitchen. "PB&J?"

He caught up with her and held her again. "If you really want a baby, I'm not totally opposed to the idea, but I'd like to wait awhile longer."

"I know." She pulled away again. "I never should have mentioned it to Ruthie." She opened a cupboard and grabbed the peanut butter. She gave the nearly empty jar a critical look, then tossed it in the trash. "Guess we'll have to go out after all."

"Hey, whatever. Talk to me, Claire. What did you say to Ruthie?"

She opened and closed cabinets, looking for something quick and edible. "Ah, I don't remember, exactly. It was a month or so ago, when we went shopping for Margot's wedding present. I said something like I'd like to have a kid one of these days." She glanced at him over her shoulder. "We were walking through the baby department."

He stopped her aimless movement in the tiny kitchen and made her focus on him. "So Ruthie will give you a hard time every now and then. She's always needling me about robbing the cradle."

She looked up at him as her arms went around his neck. "And that gives you pause when you think about a child."

"Yeah," he said, rocking gently with her. "I'm kind of old to be pulling diaper duty. And Rebecca's a teen, I think she'd die of terminal embarrassment if I knocked you up."

Claire smiled. "The thought of daddy having sex at his age." She rolled her eyes. "I remember the sentiment well."

"Are you really hungry?" He smiled.

"Horndog." She smiled back, then stepped back a pace and took his hand. She led him into her bedroom and had her way with him.

--7—

The coast of Maine, in late summer, which, in Maniac terms meant early winter, as the state knew but two seasons – Winter and a dash of Summer. They walked along the beach, wearing parkas against the stiff wind blowing off the Atlantic. Claire's hand was in Jack's, which was in his parka pocket, and they kept bumping each other as they walked. She was healing after her ordeal at the hands of the Calder brothers; Jack thought an extended vacation visiting his siblings in Maine and then Chicago would be good for her. He knew it was good for him, to prove to his brothers and sisters that he could be happy. He wished Claire could be happy again, but he'd settle for a cessation of the nightmares.

They were to go to his brother's for dinner. Tim had invited them to stay with him and his family, but Jack demurred. Claire needed privacy. He'd booked them into a bed and breakfast on the beach, and the clean sea air seemed to be doing her a world of good. They stopped at a rocky outcropping, and Claire looked at her watch. "I guess we should think about getting back, or we'll be late."

"Tim doesn't care if we're late," he said. "So what do you think of my kid brother?"

She smiled, it was a smile tinged with sadness, and it pierced his heart. He wondered if she'd ever really smile again, he had to hope she would. "He's a nice guy. Very different from his brother."

"So I'm not a nice guy?" he teased.

"You are a complex man, Jack McCoy. C'mon, I want to get a bottle of wine for dinner."

He walked with her, back to the big house above the rocks. Claire brushed her hair and examined her reflection, the brush against her lips. Jack came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, sneaking a quick glance at her reflection, her eyes. She couldn't conceal the wariness in them, where once there had been trust and openness. She lifted one of his hands and kissed it, then put the brush down and broke free of his embrace.

The nightmares came in force that night. She was screaming, and Jack had to shake her to awaken her from the horrors her mind recalled when her defenses were down. She clung to him, trembling, tears streaming down her cheeks and soaking his chest. Her angst twisted his heart, as he was powerless to ameliorate it, and he felt as if he'd let her down, betrayed her trust. He held her while she sobbed, absorbing the force of her pain. She was trying so hard to find her place in the world again, to trust those close to her, and just when she thought she might be making progress, the nightmares would strike and she'd be back at square one.

His arms, wrapped so tightly around her, kept her anchored to the reality of the dark bedroom in the big house by the sea. She couldn't count the number of times when she'd awakened and not known where she was. Jack was prepared for those times, she'd stir and he'd quickly whisper 'Jack's bed' or 'your apartment.' He'd learned to cut fear off at the knees before it gripped her completely.

She was in a dark place. She'd become used to it over the weeks that became months, learning the terrain, finding the more comfortable places amidst the rocky, difficult ones. The most comfortable place was in Jack's arms, listening to him breath, and pretending he could keep her safe. Claire had no illusions these days, they'd been stripped away and shattered at her feet, but she could pretend. It kept her on this side of sanity when the demons of the night came out to play.

--8—

Adam slowly increased her workload as she healed. She knew he consulted with Jack, and she didn't resent it. She knew it was going to take time, lots of time. She returned from arraignments to see Jack bent over a file, scratching his head. He jumped when she walked in and closed the file.

"What's that?" she asked, flopping bonelessly on the couch. She hated arraignments. She felt adrift in the crowds, vulnerable and frightened.

"A really ugly case." He stood and picked up the file. "Be right back."

Off to consult with Adam, she thought, it must be a bad one. She wondered if she would be his second chair, and the river of doubt flowed. She quickly dammed it, she would not second-guess Jack. If he believed she needed protecting, that he must shield her from something painful and ugly, she would trust his judgment. She was tired. She closed her eyes, letting the tension of the morning fade.

Jack came back. She jerked awake, embarrassed at dozing off, and pushed herself off the couch. She took her usual chair next to his desk. "So," she said, "what did you and Adam decide?"

He smiled. "That we're working you too hard, you're falling asleep at the office."

"Seriously."

He sighed. "OK. Whether or not to offer you second chair on this trial. It's an ugly one, Claire, and it's going to war with your conscience."

She understood. She didn't know if they could survive another death penalty case. She reached for Jack's hand. "Tell me about it and I'll decide for you."

Jack nodded. "Creep named Mickey Scott," he began, and he explained about the young woman who'd rear-ended Scott, how the man raped and murdered her in front of thirty witnesses. Adam was under tremendous pressure to seek the death penalty and had finally agreed the case fit the criteria, and Jack supported that decision. The wild card in his deck was Claire. "How do you feel about it?" he asked, when he'd finished giving her the particulars.

She frowned. "My feelings on the DP haven't changed, but I'll do my job." She let go of his hand and stood, walking to the window.

Jack watched her, sensing the turbulence in her soul. He got up and joined her at the window, his hands on her shoulders. "You don't have to work on this," he said, "I can borrow a second chair."

She looked at him and he saw exhaustion in her eyes. "No, I know it's part of the job, I'll do it." She patted his hand on her right shoulder. "Adam won't keep me on staff if I cherry-pick my workload."

"Claire, he understands."

She turned and perched on the two-shelf bookcase running along the wall under the windows. "I know he does, but that doesn't change the fact that this is a public service office, and if I can't pull my weight, I'm dispensable."

Jack shrugged. "If this starts tearing you apart—"

Claire eased off the bookcase and returned to her chair. "Life tears me apart sometimes," she said, softly, sorting through the files on the desk. "All I can do is work. Or sleep." She looked at him. "Everyone tells me this too shall pass."

"It takes time."

"I know." She found what she was looking for, a pre-sentencing report she had to have ready in the morning. "We'll get through it, I'm OK. Just don't expect me to cheer for the good guys."

--9—

Sundays, their one day off during trial. Claire woke early, rose up on her elbow and looked at the clock, then sank back on the pillow. Jack stirred, disturbed by her movement, but didn't wake. Claire stared at the ceiling, willing her stiff muscles to relax. She would tell him this morning. A small smile played on her lips, nothing like upending Jack McCoy in the middle of a trial, should the defense pay her a hefty fee? She thought about their current case, a run-of-the-mill homicide, if one could think of murder that way. And she thought about the shattering event scheduled for two weeks future, the execution of Mickey Scott.

She got up before she found herself mired in that moral quagmire. She put her robe on as she left the bedroom. She closed the door, then went into the kitchen. She hit the start button on the coffeemaker, then put a mug on the counter before going to the bathroom. She felt like crap, but knew it would pass, as long as she didn't trigger her gag reflex brushing her teeth.

The coffee was ready when she returned to the kitchen. She poured, then carried the mug to the couch. She curled up on it, tucking her feet under her bottom, and let her thoughts have free rein. Mickey Scott. She sighed, then sipped coffee. Jack didn't want her to go up to Attica, he insisted it wasn't necessary, and couldn't understand that she felt an obligation to go. He'd really flip out, now, she thought, go alpha male and insist she stay home, take care of herself. And she couldn't do that. She'd played her part in getting the man convicted and sentenced, she had an obligation to see it through. This was going to be one hell of a fight.

She heard the bedroom door and turned her head. Jack passed through her line of sight on his way to the bathroom. She looked down at the mug in her hands, and sipped. She hoped like hell he woke in a good mood. She heard him go back in the bedroom, and then he was in the kitchen, pouring coffee. He joined her on the couch, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Morning," he said, then took his first sip of coffee.

"Morning." Claire studied him. He seemed to be in a good mood, did she really want to risk ruining that? You didn't do this by yourself, she argued, you have to tell him. He cocked his head quizzically as he studied her with equal curiosity, and she sighed, then reached for his hand. He wove his fingers through hers and she knew he was taking her emotional temperature. Drawing a deep breath, she stepped into the abyss. "You're going to be a father," she said, and waited.

His eyes widened. As if in slow motion, he put his mug on the end table and then scooted next to her, putting his arms around her narrow shoulders. He lightly kissed the side of her head. "I guessed," he said, "but wouldn't believe it until you told me."

"You guessed?"

"I've heard you hurling in the morning." He toyed with the fabric of her robe, pinching it several times. "What do you want to do?"

She looked at him. "Have it. Yeah, it's an accident, and yeah, the timing could be better, but I've learned life is precious, and this life didn't ask to be created. I'm responsible for seeing it safely into the world, part of you, part of me." She leaned against him. "Are you pissed?"

"Not at all." He turned her face and rubbed her nose with his. "I knew it was coming one of these days." He smiled. "I'm committed to you, to a future together. But." He held her chin, looking into her eyes. "I don't want you to overstress, you're not going to Attica."

She pulled her head back and his hand fell away. "I have to, Jack."

"No, you don't."

She looked down, into the mug in her lap. "Yeah, I do, but I don't want to argue about it, not now." She looked up at him. "I want to think about good things, about our baby, about life as affirmation in the face of death." She put the mug on the end table. "It's kind of appropriate, ya know? We're bringing life into the world, as we brought about a death."

He gently pulled her head to his shoulder and kissed her hair. "So we did, on both counts. Adam's going to pop a screw." He grinned. "Hang on, it's going to be a wild ride."

--10—

Despite their best intentions, they argued frequently about the impending execution of Mickey Scott. Claire didn't know if they'd survive the ordeal intact, and she clung to the knowledge that they did love each other, they'd find their way through it, and in a few months, would welcome their child into the world. She thought of the Buddhist proverb, paraphrasing it often as she watched Jack work: when we're born, we cry while the world around us rejoices, when we die, we rejoice and the world cries. The arguments nonetheless took their toll on the relationship. Claire was growing tired of the alpha male routine, and she knew Jack was frustrated with her unyielding position.

The day of the execution, in the office, the argument degenerated into a shouting match. Adam rushed into Jack's office, glaring at them. They fell silent under with his withering glare.

"Take it out of here," Adam said, with deadly calm. "You're supposed to love each other, but beyond that, you're supposed to be professionals. Act like you are."

Claire looked at Jack, and a wave of regret washed over her. She did love him, hell, she was bringing his child into the world, they had to rise above this, stop hurting each other and fighting about the inevitable. "Jack," she whispered.

He unclenched his fists and shoved his hands in his pockets. He looked at Claire, read the raw vulnerability in her expression, and his heart softened. Aware of the people congregated in the hall, watching the fireworks, he nonetheless moved to her side and, in an impulse born of need to connect, reached for her. He hugged her, gently, whispering "I'm sorry." He let her go, then looked up at the audience beyond the glass, glaring at his subordinates. The small group quickly dispersed.

"Go home," Adam said. "You're going up to Attica later, you need to get your act together before you do. The last thing I need is my prosecutors going for each other's jugular as the warden signals the plungers."

"Adam, order her not to go." Jack couldn't hide the desperation in his soul. "It can't be good for the baby, and it sure as hell isn't good for her."

Adam regarded Jack with immense patience. "Son," he said, "I am not going to order her to go against her conscience. Work it out between yourselves, at home." He waited, watching as they surrendered to his authority and got their coats and briefcases. He watched them walk out of Jack's office, noted the foot of space between them, and he thought God help us all if they can't get through this.

--11—

They stood apart during the execution, stricken expressions on their faces. Claire wondered if Scott's death signaled the death of the most important relationship in her life; Jack feared she'd leave him and he didn't know how to live in a world without Claire. When the curtain was drawn over the execution chamber, the small group of witnesses moved silently out of the room. Jack walked beside Claire, wanting to take her hand, but she'd withdrawn into herself and locked him out.

He drove them home. The silence between them was oppressive and he didn't know how to reach her. For her part, Claire wanted to cry, to scream, to ask if Scott's death made it all better for the family of the victim, for the larger world. It was a long drive, they didn't get home and to bed until almost three.

Claire slept, and the nightmares came for her. She woke, crying, with Jack's arms around her. It was five o'clock, light was creeping up the eastern sky, but the shadows in her bedroom loomed larger. She turned into Jack's body, her arms going around his neck, crying for all she'd lost and feared she'd lose. He held her, murmuring softly, absorbing the full force of all the pain she carried in her young soul. She'd cling to him now, and then ricochet away when the pain passed, he thought, willing himself to be patient. What they shared was more important than a crisis of conscience, patience and understanding would get them though it. As she calmed in his arms, he thought about the baby, how much would it change their relationship? She hadn't mentioned marriage, and neither had he, though Adam did. Jack told Adam that it was Claire's decision, they were bound together for the next eighteen years whether they got married or not.

Claire was still, her grip on his neck loosened. He listened to her breathing, she wasn't asleep, and he lightly kissed her forehead, as he stroked her back. He wished he could carry her burden, make it easier for her, but he didn't know how to do that. Baby girl, he thought, let me in, let me help, you don't have to be so strong.

Her eyes opened and she looked at him. She put her hand on his cheek, then she rolled away from him. He watched her as she looked at the suit she'd worn to the execution, evaluating it for wearing today, then she got clean underwear from the drawer and headed to the bathroom.

Silence was still between them as they drove into work. Traffic was bad, he saw it take its toll on Claire. "Traffic should be banned in Manhattan," he said, to break the silence growing like a tumor between them. She shrugged him off. "What, no witty response?" he said, then bit his tongue, why couldn't he leave well enough alone?

"I'm tired of fighting," she said, a stricken look in her eyes.

"Good," he said.

"I can't imagine what it's like, knowing your life is going to end at a precise second-"

"Your sympathies are misplaced," he began.

She listened to his rationalizations, looking sicker with each passing second. Slightly alarmed, Jack focused on her. "I'm not feeling so well," she said.

He picked at his knee, understanding. "Must be the flu," he offered. No one in the office outside of Adam knew she was pregnant. She nodded, and he added, "Take the day?"

She offered feeble excuses, which he countered by offering to take her workload. He wanted her to go home and rest. When she said she'd drop him at the office, he unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door, telling her he'd walk, he'd call her later.

She watched him lope away, thinking that's the father of my child, my lover, my best friend, why can't we get over this? She drove home, restless and confused. She couldn't get comfortable in the small apartment and decided to run in Central Park, burn off the restless energy at war with her conscience. She changed into running clothes.

It was symbolic of her state of mind, she thought, as her long legs ate up the miles. She blew off the jerk hitting on her just before Heartbreak Hill, leaving the park at the gate closest to her car. Still unbearably restless after her shower, she decided to go see Mac. Maybe it was time to tell her parents she was pregnant, maybe Mac would provide some guidance through the morass of her life.

He didn't. He made her feel worse about the execution, so she left him without telling him he'd be a grandfather. He stopped her just before she opened the door, telling her that her mother wanted her to come for dinner one day soon. She didn't answer.

She wandered around the city, seeking some kind of anchor. Then she found herself standing in front of the two-seven. She wasn't surprised. Lennie had always been a father figure for her, if anyone could put all this in perspective, Lennie would. He wasn't there. Anita was having a late lunch and invited Claire to join her in her office.

Anita was another parental figure in Claire's life, she found it easy to talk with Anita, to expose her raw emotions without fear of ridicule or deliberate misunderstanding. It was a quiet afternoon, the shadows lengthening with the setting sun, and Claire opened up at last. She told Anita of all her doubts, told her about the baby, avoided saying much about Jack. She knew Anita knew the baby's father had to be Jack, but by not saying it, she staved off any condemnation. And then her beeper went off.

She checked it, then looked shyly at Anita. "I better take this one private," she said. She called Jack back. He wanted her to pick him up, and she looked at her watch. God, she'd been here four hours. She told Jack she'd be there, responding to the need in his voice, not for a ride but for connection. She went back to Anita's office, resuming the conversation about the baby.

"You ready to do this all by yourself?" Anita asked. "You haven't mentioned getting married."

Claire shrugged it off. "I won't be doing it by myself. Daddy will be there, he's not trying to evade his responsibility."

Anita's expression was shrewd. "I'd hope not," she said, dryly. "Does Adam Schiff know what's coming?"

Claire nodded. "He's supportive."

Anita pointed chopsticks at Claire. "Good. I'm sure he'll make the daddy step up."

"You know," Claire said, "and you know why I won't name him. So, without admitting anything, I can say the baby's father is on board, as supportive as he can be."

Anita grinned. "Claire Kincaid, I hate to tell you this, but it's the worst-kept secret in town. The second you start showing, everybody and his brother will know who the father is."

Claire blushed. "Yeah, I know. Just trying to preserve the formalities."

"Uh huh. I assume that was baby's daddy on the phone?"

"Yeah, I have to go pick him up, and hope World War Three doesn't erupt."

Anita watched Claire, evaluating the vulnerable, gentle young woman. She listened to Claire explore the issues she confronted in the workplace, then she said, "Want to get a drink?"

Claire glanced at her watch. "I can't, I've kept him waiting long enough." She got up. "Thanks, Anita."

"Anytime, counselor. Hang in there, you'll find your way to the other side."

Claire nodded and left the precinct. She drove to the bar, vaguely familiar with the neighborhood and wondering how Jack found his way there. It wasn't the kind of place he usually frequented. She found a parking space and wandered uneasily into the dark, smoky bar. She looked around, not seeing Jack. Then she saw Lennie, shooting pool.

"Jack called me," she said.

"Jack," he said, "Jack turned into a pumpkin."

"You've been drinking," she said, uneasily, this was not the Lennie she knew and depended on.

"That's what's causing this," he said, tossing his pool cue on the table. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"No, thanks," she said. She listened to one of his lawyer jokes, then said "Why don't you get your coat and I'll take you home."

--12—

It rained while Claire was in the bar, mist rose from the pavement and the puddles in the street. She got Lennie in the car and pulled away from the curb. "Where to?" she asked.

"I used to know," he mumbled, then said, "You know, it wouldn't be so bad if you were my kid. You're smart, pretty, have a good job, and you don't hate my guts."

"I'm sure your daughter doesn't hate you, Lennie." Claire longed for Jack, his drunkenness was familiar and she could deal with it. She'd never seen Lennie drunk, and it was unnerving. Then she was caught in headlight beams and turned her head.

--13—

As pain overwhelmed her consciousness, she silently cried "Jack!"

--14—

Lennie slowly got out the car, ignoring the blood streaming down his face. He walked around to the crushed driver's door and looked at Claire. Oh God, he cried, looking at the sky, no no no. And rain fell, tears from above, as Claire Kincaid rejoiced and the world cried.

END


End file.
